


An Arrangement of Princes

by Anonymous



Series: all things bright and beautiful [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (mostly), Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, An Appropriate Amount Of Finwëan Family Dramatics, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Conversations, Finwean family drama, Fëanor Is Trying™, Good Dad Nolofinwë, Happy Ending, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar Compliant, M/M, Manwë Is Surprisingly Chill, Noldorin Betrothal Customs, Secret Relationship, Valinor, Wedding Planning, Weddings, Worldbuilding Exchange 2021, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-26
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-27 03:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Finwë arranges a marriage between his two eldest grandsons. Their fathers are not happy about this. The grandsons, though...they'll work with the opportunity presented.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: all things bright and beautiful [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216190
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	An Arrangement of Princes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daphnerunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/gifts).



> I've had this idea for a very long time, so I was ecstatic to have this opportunity to write it - and for such an amazing author, too! This turned out a bit more "romcom" than "worldbuilding" but there are definitely worldbuilding elements present.
> 
> Set about Y.T. 1420, so Melkor is out and stirring up resentment among the Noldor (hence why Finwë is like ‘we have to stop this fighting’) but well before Fëanor even thinks of making the Silmarils.
> 
> I have a few more notes for after reveals...but for now, enjoy!

The boy was _astonishingly_ still, Fëanáro realized in the back of his mind. Later, this would concern him, but now in the heat of the moment he took Nelyafinwë’s silence as shocked horror. Even if he saw the Nolofinwion as a friend of sorts, _this_ was much too far!

“—that Vanyarin queen of his, she’s poisoned his mind and clouded him from reason,” he growled, pacing back and forth across his study. “Marriage should be done for _love_ , not _politics_ —love is why he married _my_ mother, why I married _your_ mother, but her Majesty smiles and suddenly he can only think about _alliances_ —”

Nelyafinwë coughed quietly, his silver eyes downcast. “Atar,” he said, “if Haru Finwë wishes to...unite the lines of Indis and Míriel, I will not stand in his way.”

Fëanáro gritted his teeth. “This is _your life_ , Nelyafinwë,” he snapped. “Do not let him rule it for you!”

“You were less opposed to arranging my marriage when it was Daurin who offered his daughter’s hand to me,” Nelyafinwë pointed out.

Fëanáro bristled. “You can do much better than the Nolofinwion brat,” he insisted. “Daurin is a friend, a loyal supporter—”

“And Findekáno could be, if I wed him.” Something almost wistful flickered across Nelyafinwë’s face, but it was gone so quickly Fëanáro assumed it must truly have been indecision. “Atar...you agreed to this proposition, did you not?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But only because Nolofinwë—” He bit back an insult. Fëanáro could hardly oppose his beloved father in an earnest attempt at reconciliation, especially when Nolofinwë would be quick to use such a move against him.

“But if _you_ refused,” Fëanáro implored, “Atar could not _force_ you to...”

Nelyafinwë raised an eyebrow, his expression otherwise carefully blank. Ever the politician, this one, Fëanáro was reminded. He _would_ sacrifice himself for the sake of Finwë’s favor, and for Fëanáro’s benefit.

“It is not a bad plan,” Nelyafinwë said slowly. “I have long hoped my friendship with Findekáno would heal this rift, or at least...lessen the strife. If this is what it takes, I am willing to do my part.”

“But what of your own heart?” Fëanáro pressed, and he was only half concerned by the thought of joining his House to Nolofinwë’s; the other half of him truly worried for his son’s wellbeing.

Nelyafinwë’s lips twitched in an echo of a smile. “Do not worry about that, Atar,” he assured. “I know my fëa well enough to be certain that will not be an issue, not in this matter.”

“I will do my best to find a way out of this, for you,” Fëanáro promised. He already had a few ideas percolating in the back of his mind.

Nelyafinwë sighed. “Alright. Thank you, Atar.”

“Now—go.” Fëanáro waved a hand in dismissal. “Send your mother in...I am sure she has many things to scold me about all this.”

“Yes, Atar,” Nelyafinwë obeyed, and Fëanáro clenched his fist. To cast aside such a loyal son in such a manner...no, he would not let it happen.

There had to be another way. He would find one, or make one if there wasn’t.

* * *

“Your grandfather has proposed—and as reluctant as I am in this, I respect his wisdom—he has proposed a union that would be...most advantageous for our family,” Ñolofinwë said slowly. “I did advocate for you in this, yonya, but he has made up his mind, and I agreed to at least present the offer to you—”

“Wait.” Findekáno’s voice was colder than Ñolofinwë had ever heard it. “A _union_? As in...a _marriage_?”

“Yes,” Ñolofinwë said grimly.

“You’ve been _arranging_ my _marriage_?” Findekáno demanded.

Ñolofinwë pinched the bridge of his nose. “Findekáno, surely you are aware that your mother and I have been looking for eligible young níssi—and then néri, when you made your preference clear—for several years now—”

“And you are free to present me _options_ , which I shall politely decline, but somehow I guess that Haru’s word is more _final_ ,” Findekáno growled.

“Will you at least hear me out?” Ñolofinwë implored. “You know, your mother and I were guided into an arranged betrothal much like this, and we came to love each other deeply—”

“And what if I _already_ love another deeply?” Findekáno challenged. “What if I know the partner of my fëa, and it is _not_ whichever unfortunate princess that Finwë has selected for—”

Ñolofinwë let out a short bark of laughter. “No,” he said drily. “A prince.”

“ _Even still_ —”

“It is—” Ñolofinwë grimaced, and braced himself for further outrage— “he wishes to join the lines of Indis and Míriel. He is proposing a marriage between you and Maitimo.”

Findekáno froze, his mouth hanging open. His shock was so utter that Ñolofinwë’s heart ached with sorrow. He could scarcely back out now, not without giving Curufinwë the upper hand, but his son’s obvious dismay at the prospect of wedding his Fëanárion friend pierced Ñolofinwë to the core.

“M-Maitimo?” Findekáno croaked. “But he... But you...”

“It is not what I would have wished for you,” Ñolofinwë admitted. “I do not want to—taint your friendship, nor to see my son join himself to _that_ House. But if it will end this strife, and please Atar...”

Findekáno closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. “I am to wed Maitimo?” he repeated, incredulous. “Truly?”

“I am sorry,” Ñolofinwë said, feeling ever more wretched.

“I...need some space,” Findekáno declared, turning to the door. “I need to...process this.”

“Of course,” Ñolofinwë agreed. “Take all the time you need. Well...a few days, at most. Atar—King Finwë wants the betrothal finalized soon.”

But Findekáno did not seem to hear him, pushing open the door and wandering away in a daze...leaving Ñolofinwë weary and guilty in his study.

How had it come to this?

* * *

All Maitimo wanted to do when Findekáno slipped over the fence and into their secret garden was to take him in his arms and hold him—and yet, all he _could_ do was stand still and helpless, utterly overwhelmed by the terrifying new step they had been forced to take in their still-young relationship.

“Finno,” he rasped.

Findekáno didn’t meet his eyes. “So your father told you, too?”

“Yes,” Maitimo said. “I...never thought this could happen.”

“Me neither,” Findekáno admitted. “I thought...I never wanted to keep our love secret _forever_ , but this is not how...”

“Wait,” Maitimo said, cold fear gripping his heart. “You—did you tell your father about—us?”

Now Findekáno _did_ look at him, his head jerking up swiftly. “No!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t—I _wouldn’t_ , not without you.” He hesitated. “And Atya...isn’t pleased. I imagine Fëanáro isn’t either.”

“No,” Maitimo agreed, relaxing a little. He suddenly felt very lonely, despite the presence of the nér he loved. The nér to whom he would very soon be _betrothed_.

“Can I...hold you?” he asked shyly. They had only confessed their love for one another a few months prior, and while Maitimo knew the depth of his own devotion to Findekáno deep within his heart, this was all so _sudden_ and _new_. They hadn’t even breathed the word “marriage,” knowing it would be a far distant dream.

But now...

“Yes, please.” Findekáno’s voice wobbled, and Maitimo opened his arms, Finno falling into them. He breathed in the scent of his beloved’s hair, felt a stray curl tickle his nose. Finno felt so good in his arms; he felt grounded with Findekáno by his side.

And to _marry_ him—to have this _always_ —

“Is this...” Even with Findekáno’s face pressed into his chest, Maitimo still felt nervous asking. And yet, he needed to ask—so much sooner than he’d ever imagined. “Are you...okay with this? The...betrothal?”

Findekáno sniffled a little, then turned his face up, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I...don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t like not having a choice. I’m glad—I’m glad it’s _you_ , and not someone else, but this...it’s so _fast_ , and I can tell there’s trouble ahead...”

“I want to marry you,” Maitimo confessed, the words tumbling out in a hurried mess. “Finno, I—I know this is, it isn’t ideal, but I...can’t imagine being with someone else. It’s you, it’s always been you. And this feels like—like an unasked-for blessing, that Haru would approve, and make our fathers approve—”

“I want that too,” Findekáno interrupted. “It’s...Maitimo. My Russo. I _love_ you, more than I thought I could ever love someone. But I wanted—I want it on our own terms. My love, _our_ love—it’s not a political plaything. We can’t escape that entirely, we are princes, but...am I selfish, to feel betrayed, even when this chance might be the best we ever get?”

“No, no.” Maitimo tilted Finno’s chin up and laid a gentle kiss to his lips. “You’re not selfish, except to want me all to yourself, and that I give you gladly. But it’s...damn it all, you’re right—I feel like a pawn in a game of chess. My father won’t accept this easily—he’ll fight against it—he’ll expect _me_ to do the same! And yet...”

“And yet.” Findekáno sighed. “Oh, Russandol. You’re right. My father is unhappy, also. If I had blurted out my love for you before he told me _who_ I was to marry, he may have believed me, but now...he’ll see any confession of mine as a self-sacrifice, and tear himself apart with guilt over pressuring me into such a situation for his sake.”

 _As he should,_ Maitimo grumbled darkly, though he did not voice the thought. His own father was worse, in that regard.

“I didn’t want to rush,” Maitimo murmured. “I wanted to—to savor this, savor _you_ , enjoy how things developed between us... I feel robbed of that chance, now.”

“But...we are going to do it, right?” Findekáno asked. “We might not _get_ another chance. And I know...” He swallowed. “I know we would end up here eventually. It’s just—the challenges are different than the ones we expected.”

“Findekáno, of _course_ I will marry you, if that is your roundabout way of asking.” Maitimo brushed his cheek fondly, and Finno laugh-cried, pulling him down into another kiss.

“I am glad of that, at least,” he whispered when they broke apart. “We may have to play pretend for a little longer...but if this ends with you as my husband, I will be happier for it.”

“Husband,” Maitimo choked out, overcome with a bittersweet hope. “Yes. It will all be worth it, in the end, for that. For you.”

* * *

Findekáno felt like he was performing in a sick parody of his own life. His father swung between insisting this betrothal was in the best interests of everyone involved and sending guilty glances his way whenever Maitimo was so much as mentioned; his mother brushed off any of his gently raised concerns with a firm reminder that _her_ arranged marriage had resulted in domestic bliss; his brothers wouldn’t meet his eye in public; his sister nearly challenged Tyelkormo to a duel for his honor after one veiled insult too many.

And Russandol—well, his stolen moments with Russandol felt less and less sincere, and it was breaking his heart. They were together often, these days, under the watchful eyes of Finwë and his court, but their chaperoning made everything between them feel _forced_. Sometimes he even thought Russandol was trying to escape him, like the time he had taken Makalaurë and Ingoldo out hunting and not bothered to invite him along. Findekáno knew he was probably just happy to get away from the palace for a few days, but it still _stung_ not to be included.

It wasn’t fair: he was _betrothed_ to _Russandol_ , and yet he was still expected to keep his love contained! Findekáno had dreamily imagined holding his beloved’s hand in public, kissing him farewell without worry of who might see, enduring with good humor the teasing of his relatives...but now, when he _should_ have the opportunity to indulge in those activities, he was instead barred from doing more than smiling at his betrothed, and even _that_ was scrutinized by their fathers.

He wished he’d just told Ñolofinwë who he loved to begin with. If he tried now, he knew he would not be believed; his father would think he was faking his affections for the sake of the alliance, sacrificing himself for the greater good. As if Findekáno would do such a thing! _Russo_ might, he had a flair for the dramatic that he insisted was “responsibility,” but it was unlike Findekáno to dismiss his own desires if there was a better way.

But the politics of the situation were _unbearable_. Russandol was pressured on all sides to perform a stiff indifference to him, as if even their friendship had abated; he confessed to Findekáno that Fëanáro scrutinized his every action to see if “the Nolofinwion” had “corrupted” him. (Sometimes Findekáno wanted to challenge him to a duel—though not for the same reasons as his father. No, he just wanted Fëanáro to treat Russandol better.)

And Findekáno was not himself immune from such burdens. Dozens of courtiers came to him expressing sympathy for his situation; even Finwë, who had arranged the whole thing, would cast pitying glances his way when the topic arose. If he and Russandol were to cast aside all their playacting and show their true affection, it would be a scandal. They weren’t supposed to be _glad_ that they’d been forced into this situation.

Truthfully, Findekáno was _not_ glad. Yes, he was to marry Maitimo, if all went to plan (and he was certain that _someone_ would meddle and make things more complicated, if not mess them up entirely), but all this simpering and sighing and scheming made him feel sick to his stomach. He’d had to endure all this _before_ the betrothal, and now his one respite, his love for Russandol, had been dragged into the public eye.

There were good days, of course. Days where Fëanáro and Anairë (the younger of each of their sets of parents, and thus the ones tradition dictated were responsible for the task) were so caught up in planning the wedding feast that they forgot to fight; days where Nerdanel passed gossip to him as if she had already given him Russandol’s hand (as the elder parent did, according to the same tradition); days where Findekáno and Russandol’s chaperoned outings were to places and events they actually wished to go; days where Ñolofinwë beamed the radiance of his father’s smile back onto his own children. Days where it seemed that this arrangement might accomplish something.

But the good days were overcast by the bad ones: when Ñolofinwë would lament Findekáno’s fate without once asking how Findekáno felt about it; when he _would_ ask and Findekáno struggled to provide an answer that wouldn’t blacken his mood further; when Fëanáro directed his snide comments to Findekáno in addition to Ñolofinwë; when even his hidden moments with Russo were tense and bitter.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he announced one day, tugging at his braids until they frizzed. “I’ll go mad if I have to hear another one of Ammë’s scoldings, or if Fëanáro looks at me like I’m a stain on Finwë’s lineage—”

“At least you don’t _live_ with him,” Russandol grumbled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “His every scheme to foil this _arrangement_ gets more complicated by the day. I’m running out of subtle ways of misdirecting him.”

“I wish we were still hiding,” Findekáno bemoaned. “At least then it was us against the world—now I feel as if you’re an opponent, too.”

Russandol pursed his lips. “A handsome one, I’d hope.”

Findekáno didn’t laugh. Of course he still found Maitimo fair; of course he still wanted him. But sometimes he wondered if it was all worth it.

“Finno...” Russandol stood, walking over to wrap his arms around him. “I know this is difficult. But in the end...”

“I’d rather feel like I’m yours in secret than be wed to a grimacing stranger,” Findekáno whispered, closing his eyes before tears could escape. “I don’t...this is too much, Russo. I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

Russo let go of him, stiffening. “Do you not...” He swallowed. “Do you want to end things? Between us?”

“I want to end things between Findekáno Ñolofinwion and Nelyafinwë Fëanárion,” Findekáno confessed. “But—but not between Finno and Russo. Is it wrong to miss the hiding? At least then we felt like _us_.”

“No...no.” Russandol wiped a tear of his own away. “I feel the same way...almost. I just—it helps if I remember that in the end, we’ll be wed. Once we have that bond...”

“But it won’t be over then, either,” Findekáno said. “They’ll expect us to consummate the marriage, initiate the bond, but then—” He broke off. “We’ll still be our fathers’ sons. They’ll still try to use us against each other.”

“Can I not love my husband?” Russandol cried. “Would that be so wrong? If we could—act as if we had _slowly_ come to find mutual trust, appreciation—”

“We had that already,” Findekáno said. “When we were known only as ‘friends.’ My father said he didn’t wish to ‘taint our friendship’—hah. If only he knew what he’d done!”

“I still love you, Findekáno,” Russandol said quietly. “I still...I want to believe there is a future for us. But if you really don’t think so...”

Findekáno shuddered. “No. No, there _has_ to be. We’ll figure it out.”

“Before my father figures out how to break the betrothal and still have the upper hand,” Russandol muttered, and Findekáno bit back another snide comment.

“We’ll figure it out,” he repeated dully, and he wished he could believe it.

* * *

“I’ve got it,” Fëanáro declared, bursting into Nelyafinwë’s rooms without bothering to knock.

Nelyafinwë let out an unprincely yelp of surprise, hurriedly slamming shut the book he was reading and shoving it under his pillow. “Atar!” he exclaimed. “I’m—you’re—what do you mean?”

“I know how to end this blasted betrothal,” he said. It had taken far longer than he had expected to find the solution, but he _had_ it now, and he was certain it would work. All he needed was Nelyafinwë’s cooperation, and of course his son would agree.

“Oh.” Nelyafinwë smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “That’s...I knew you’d find a way, Atar.”

Fëanáro chuckled darkly. He was brilliant; of course he had found a way, and Nelyafinwë had faith in that. His eldest son was difficult to read, in a way his other children were not: Kánafinwë proclaimed his emotions to all the world, Turcafinwë was obvious in everything he did, Morifinwë’s face always gave away his feelings, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë could always be relied on to explain the other, and while Curufinwë was a master of concealment he would never hide anything from his beloved father.

But Nelyafinwë—he was different. He was thoughtful, wise, quick-witted, able to deflect prying questions with ease. It was an excellent skill to have, especially considering he spent so much time in court with Nolofinwë and his lackeys, but he was so adept at polite evasion that he consternated even Fëanáro from time to time.

But not this time. Nelyafinwë had been relying on Fëanáro to free him from this web of weddings and woe, and Fëanáro had at last delivered.

“I was looking through the betrothal contract,” Fëanáro explained, pulling a chair up to Nelyafinwë’s bedside. “Searching for a loophole, some stipulation to exploit. Had you simply refused at the start, we could have avoided all this, but we were both quite aware of the complications that would incur.”

“But now...?” Nelyafinwë prompted, a queer light in his silver eyes.

“Eldarin marriage must be done freely, in _love_ ,” Fëanáro emphasized. “The Laws governing our customs are—” He paused, briefly considering the best way to word this. His own children knew his resentments toward the Valar, of course, but this argument would be proposed to Tirion at large, and he did not think the Amanyar were yet ready for his fierce words. No, that would come in time.

“—they are...there to _codify_ what we know to be natural,” he said. “There may be other motivations for such a union, of course, but a bond _cannot_ be formed without the truest, deepest love between fëar.”

“Yes,” Nelyafinwë agreed slowly. “Or free will, at the least. But what does this have to do with...all this?”

“It is simpler than I first thought,” Fëanáro said. “After all these months—the wedding is only six weeks away!—you have certainly had ample opportunity to develop...feelings for the Nolofinwion. But it is apparent to all who see you that even your friendship has become strained—if anything, your affection has _lessened_ because of this trial.”

Nelyafinwë stiffened. “Atar,” he began, but Fëanáro wasn’t finished.

“If you wish to rebuild that bond of brotherhood, clearly it must be done outside of something as confining as a marriage,” he said. “I am not fond of him, you know this, but your friendship is...acceptable. And certainly preferable to a _marriage_. So: you must simply declare to Finwë and all his court that you have done your best to love him, and failed, and that if he _truly_ wishes to ‘heal the rift’ between our Houses it would be better if he left you boys alone.”

He sat back, beaming, quite pleased with the solution. It rankled that any of his House needed to admit to failure, but a failure to love a rival, even one Nelyafinwë was fond of in other ways, was not truly a failure.

He expected Nelyafinwë to be joyous, or at least relieved. But he sat still and silent, his face a mask of polite concentration, and Fëanáro’s smile melted away.

“Well?” he demanded. “When shall you make your announcement?”

“Atar...” Nelyafinwë took a deep breath, straightening his posture. He didn’t quite meet Fëanáro’s eyes, instead gazing off into the distance. “I don’t think...I don’t think I _can_.”

“What?!”

 _This_ was not what he had been expecting. Of course he could! It would even be the truth! Fëanáro was positive he had read the situation correctly; the weariness with which Nelyafinwë greeted Findekáno was enough proof that even their friendship had waned. What in all of Arda did he mean?

“Your plan is...logistically sound,” Nelyafinwë said carefully, “and in any other scenario would work perfectly. A marriage bond cannot be formed unwillingly, without love.”

“So what is the issue?” Fëanáro snapped.

Nelyafinwë sighed. “I...don’t not love him?”

The double negative threw Fëanáro for a moment, but his bright mood darkened the instant he understood what his son meant. “Say it straight, yonya,” he growled.

“Over these months...my feelings for Findekáno have...” Nelyafinwë chewed his lip, and Fëanáro could sense his nervousness now, sparking off his fëa erratically. “They have—deepened. I have always loved him...as a brother...but he is _not_ my brother, and truly—I enjoy his company, I am fond of his bright spirit, I love—” he hesitated— “I love his laugh, Atar. That is...you told me, when I was young, that was the first thing you loved about Amil—her laugh. I think...I think I _could_ bond with Findekáno, Atar. I think I love him.”

Fëanáro heard every word, but his mind struggled to categorize this onslaught of troubling information. His mind was like a storeroom: organized in a manner others might find chaotic, but he could navigate perfectly. Each drop of knowledge, each secret, each insight—they all had their place.

But what Nelyafinwë was saying now—there _was_ no place in his mind for that. He had no room to shelve “Nelyafinwë loves the Nolofinwion” in his storeroom; such a compartment would take years to build, for he had never considered anything like it before.

“But...but...” It was rare that Fëanáro was at a loss for words. He had practiced wordcraft since childhood; he’d practically perfected it. He, Curufinwë Fëanáro, had invented the Tengwar! He had established the Department of Rhetoric at the University of Tirion! His treatises on smithcraft, on ósanwë, on _marriage_ were the foundation of modern critical thought! And yet now, faced with such a little thing like _love_ , he had no words at all.

“There _is_ a strain upon us,” Nelyafinwë admitted, “but it is not _between_ us. It comes from...outside pressures. From Finwë. From Nolofinwë. From...well, from you, Atar. Without that, perhaps we could have found this—this love long ago.”

“I...but you...but he...” Fëanáro barely held back a whimper. He had not felt this lost and confused since—since he had lost his mother.

Nelyafinwë’s emotional defenses seemed to be lowered somewhat. He flinched away from Fëanáro, looking as if he feared his own father’s reaction. And—and Fëanáro realized with horror that he was _right_ to fear him, for if he were not so befuddled in this moment he was certain he would be furious. He could never hurt his sons, _never_! Except...had he been trying to, in tearing Nelyafinwë from his...from his beloved? Eru help him, he _still_ wanted to do that, still felt disgust at the thought of a Fëanárion lowering himself to Nolofinwë’s level, still...

“Arda truly is Marred,” he croaked, and he was not certain what he meant by that. _Because you fell for_ him _? Or—because I cannot fathom putting my son’s happiness before my own pride?_

“I don’t know who else I _would_ marry,” Nelyafinwë confessed, his voice small. “There’s never been...there’s never been anyone I felt this way about, before. I was willing to do this, for Finwë’s sake, and for the peace it could bring, but...”

 _Who else—no one else—_ Fëanáro grasped onto that, his scattered thoughts coalescing into something he could express.

“If it’s only your options that are limiting you, that is easily taken care of,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can make a list of the eligible bachelors in Tirion—in, in Alqualondë, in Valmar too, even, I can—it is bachelors that interest you, right, Nelyo? I can find ladies as well, if not—”

“Atar!” Nelyafinwë interrupted, his sharp determination reasserting itself. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height, towering over Fëanáro.

“Atar,” he said again, quieter this time but still firm. “It is not for lack of options that I have not found a spouse before now. It is because the one I was looking for was...was right under my nose the whole time. And now, this...complicated scenario has...revealed that, or—allowed for it...and I—” He swallowed. “I do love him, Atar. I did not know how to tell you—I wanted to, for a long time, a _very_ long time, I...but do you understand, now, why I cannot break this betrothal?”

Fëanáro felt the sudden, maddening impulse to flee and commiserate with _Nolofinwë_ of all people. Surely, _surely_ , his damned half-brother would find this as horrifying as he did!

And—an idea flashed into his mind, bright as his burning spirit. Maybe he _did_ need to...collaborate with Nolofinwë.

Nelyafinwë had spoken only of his _own_ feelings for Findekáno, but naught of Findekáno’s feelings for _him_. Perhaps Nelyafinwë could not break the betrothal—but Findekáno still could. He would not listen to any offer from Fëanáro, of course, but from his own father...

“I hear you,” he rumbled, certain that for once he truly did appear as mad as some folk whispered. “But it will take me some time to—truly understand.” Surely there was still a way out of this—surely if Findekáno turned Nelyafinwë down, he would find someone else. They could all go their own merry way, and never speak of this dreadful year again.

“That is...more than I could ask for,” Nelyafinwë admitted, and _now_ Fëanáro heard the relief in his voice. “Thank you, Atar.”

Wordlessly, Fëanáro embraced his eldest son, then fled from his room and out of the house. His mind spun, his carefully collected thoughts clattering to the floor of his mental storeroom, and he laughed hollowly to himself as he realized that the hope he clung to now was that _Nolofinwë_ , of all people, could save him from his own son’s foolish desires.

* * *

“Findekáno?” Ñolofinwë said, knocking softly on his eldest son’s door. “May I come in?”

“Mm—just a moment!” Findekáno exclaimed. There was the sound of papers shuffling, a drawer opening and slamming shut, the padding of feet—and then the door opened, and Findekáno smiled up at his father. “Hello, Atya!”

“You left the inkwell open,” Ñolofinwë pointed out as he walked inside.

“Oops!” Findekáno hurried to cap it, and Ñolofinwë glanced around curiously, seeing the stains on his writing desk and his forearms. He must have been deeply agitated about whatever he had been putting to paper.

No matter; that was his son’s business, and not his own, unless Findekáno wished to share. He was here for—well, he was here because he had accidentally encountered some business of Findekáno’s he was fairly certain his son had _not_ wanted to share, and it was something they needed to discuss before he could allow Finno to continue to exercise his right to privacy.

“Can I help you, Atya?” Findekáno asked.

“Ah...” Ñolofinwë sighed. This was a tricky situation. Findekáno was an adult; he was betrothed; he should not have to deal with his father sticking an inquisitive nose into his love life. But it had happened, and he knew he could not simply pretend otherwise, not given the...circumstances.

“I am afraid I must admit to something that may embarrass us both,” Ñolofinwë began.

Findekáno giggled, then covered his mouth, attempting to hide it with a cough. “What do you mean?”

“Yesterday...at the palace...I went to relieve myself, and on my way out I overheard a... _commotion_ in one of the broom closets,” Ñolofinwë said diplomatically. “It seems a couple had stolen away for a private moment and forgotten to close the door entirely.”

As he spoke, the color drained from Findekáno’s face, leaving his dark skin ashy. Knowing there was no way out of this, Ñolofinwë pressed on: “I thought I would simply pass on my way, for it was none of my business, but then I heard a voice I recognized...”

_“Finno,” the low voice moaned. “Ai, Finno, I can’t—”_

_A chuckle, even lower. “But we have to return soon, dearest Russo. Do you really think you can return and face your father with your pants such a mess beneath your robes?”_

_Ñolofinwë’s blood turned to ice, for he knew both those voices—both those nicknames—as well as his own._

_Great Eru—it was—but it_ couldn’t _be, not with the way they acted around each other these days—if it were any_ other _betrothed couple, perhaps, but not—_

“...and I knew I needed to leave immediately,” Ñolofinwë finished, a blush rising to his cheeks. At least Findekáno would know this situation was just as mortifying for his father as it was for him. “But I could not simply—ignore it, as I would if it were anyone else.” He paused, wondering if he needed to say it straight. When Findekáno did not speak, he added, “Because the voice I heard was—”

“Atya!” Findekáno squeaked, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, don’t say it, _please_ don’t—I am _so_ horribly embarrassed, ai, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It’s...” Not _alright_ , but only because this whole situation was so _complicated_ ; if he’d caught his son with anyone else, under any other circumstance, he would simply have chuckled and told Findekáno to be certain the door was firmly shut next time, but as it was...

“It was—we were—” Findekáno took a strangled breath. “I know I should be...faithful to my betrothed, but I...do you remember what I said about having found someone, before all this really—?”

“Oh, Finno.” Ñolofinwë grimaced. “It wasn’t just you I heard. I know—I know it was Maitimo in there as well. You don’t have to lie.”

A new kind of horror dawned on Findekáno’s face. Truly, Ñolofinwë had never seen him more distraught; he was glad that it was a matter of the heart that brought this about, and not something more deadly serious, though this was very grave in its own way, of course.

“It was—we were—” Findekáno turned away, all the color flooding back into him as he flushed deeply. “Well, if we’re going to—if we have to...I was just, we were...practicing? For—for the wedding?”

Ñolofinwë recalled the moan he had heard, the tone of dominance, the words heavy-laden with meaning. “Finno...you _have_ attended wedding ceremonies before,” he said with some concern. “You know that they—it is not our custom that the marriage be...consummated in public—”

That _had_ happened, in the Long Dark before the Great Journey, or so the Unbegotten claimed; now, such actions were undertaken in private. The evidence of a bond was plain in one’s eyes, after all; there was no need to...further verify.

“Atya!” Findekáno groaned. “No, I don’t mean—”

“ _Please_ do not do that at the wedding,” Ñolofinwë begged, only half in jest.

“ _No_ , of course not!” Findekáno collapsed on his bed dramatically. “I meant...I mean, if we’re going to be married we’d have to...at some point...so I thought, maybe if we knew a _little_ about each other, and...?” He trailed off, staring at the ceiling.

Ñolofinwë sighed, massaging his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. “I thought your mother and I gave you adequate education on this subject,” he said. “If you have further questions—”

“No,” Findekáno interrupted. “No, the—I know, we know how the mechanics of it work, we just...”

“A little experimentation is fine, so long as you do not go too far and bond before you are ready,” Ñolofinwë said tiredly. “Valar know Anairë and I didn’t wait until the wedding to...ah, yes, I’ll shut up, sorry.” (For Findekáno had exclaimed an incoherent protest, and Ñolofinwë understood not wanting to hear about one’s parents’ sex lives.)

“I just—I could not just pretend I had not overheard,” Ñolofinwë said awkwardly. “Especially since...” He sighed again. “I know this is not what any of us would have chosen for you. It eats away at me, that I put you in this position...and I don’t want you to feel obligated to be intimate with someone you would rather not be. If you...if you really feel you must prepare yourself before committing the full act, or—work up to it, because it is otherwise unthinkable—”

“Atya, _no_ ,” Findekáno said, sitting back up. His eyes were serious, and he reached out to clasp his father’s hands. “It’s not—we weren’t...look, we’re nervous, but what betrothed couple isn’t?” He laughed a little, that anxiety evident. “It’s not that...I’m not _dreading_ it. This isn’t happening the way I thought it would, but it’s...it could be much worse, really. I’m marrying a nér who is undeniably very attractive, and we—” He bit his lip.

“I just wanted to tell you that I am willing to call this off, if you cannot go through with it.” Ñolofinwë squeezed his hands reassuringly. “It...was a mistake to let it get this far.”

“It’s fine, Atya, _really_ ,” Findekáno said, but this time he didn’t meet Ñolofinwë’s gaze.

“If you say so,” he said.

A pause. “...can I have some time to myself?” Findekáno asked awkwardly. “I’ll join the family for supper, but...this is...” He shook his head. “I promise I’ll double-check every door I close from now on, whatever I’m doing. I’m _so_ sorry you had to...ugh, I’ll never live this down.”

“We needn’t speak of it again,” Ñolofinwë assured, making his way back to the door. “Unless you reconsider what I offered, in which case...”

He let the sentence trail off. When Findekáno didn’t respond, he sighed once more and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

What a mess this was, he thought tiredly. He made his way downstairs, distracted by his thoughts, only to be intercepted by Anairë before he could go much further than the stairwell.

She touched his arm, her dark eyes serious. “You have a visitor,” she murmured.

Ñolofinwë blinked. “What?”

“It’s...” Anairë frowned. _It’s your half-brother,_ she murmured across their marriage bond. _He’s...in quite the state, but he insists on seeing you._

“ _What?_ ”

“Shh!” Anairë pressed a finger to his lips. _He’s in the sitting room. Please, be careful...we’re so close to the wedding day, I don’t want this all to be for naught._ “Alright, darling?”

There was a hint of iron in her voice, both in Ñolofinwë’s mind and out loud, and he nodded. It might not be apparent from the outside, but it was Anairë, not he, who ruled this house.

Even if Ñolofinwë had his doubts—very _serious_ doubts—about this whole situation.

He made his way to the sitting room, stopping short as he beheld Curufinwë pacing back and forth like he wanted to tear a hole in the floor. He almost thought he saw sparks flying from his eyes, though surely not even the Spirit of Fire was _that_ explosive.

“Brother,” he greeted him solemnly. “What brings you to my home?”

Curufinwë jumped, his gaze even more crazed now that he met Ñolofinwë’s eyes full-on. “Half-brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “We need to...talk. About our sons.”

“Yes,” Ñolofinwë agreed slowly. He eyed Curufinwë’s rapidly tapping foot with some concern. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

Curufinwë grunted his assent and headed out the door before Ñolofinwë could take the lead. Sighing, Ñolofinwë followed.

“I talked with Nelyafinwë today,” Curufinwë said shortly, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he began to walk briskly along the edge of Ñolofinwë’s property. “I presented him the perfect plan to break off this betrothal without—well, without either of us losing too much in the process.” Now he did glance back, that feverish intensity sending a chill down Ñolofinwë’s spine.

“Surely that’s good news,” he said mildly, though he thought from Curufinwë’s agitation it was not.

“So I thought,” Curufinwë said grimly. “But Nelyafinwë—my eldest son—tells me that he cannot go through with it!”

“Hold a moment,” Ñolofinwë said, taking long strides to catch up to his brother. “What exactly is the plan, that he cannot do it?”

“All he must do is announce that despite his best efforts, he cannot force himself to love Findekáno!” Curufinwë exclaimed. “Marriage is _sacred_ ; I know _you_ may not view it that way, but even the Valar—”

“Of course it is sacred,” Ñolofinwë said, exasperated. Just because he saw the wisdom in marriage alliances did not mean he cast aside love entirely! “But the boys agreed, and they _do_ like each other—”

“Apparently Nelyafinwë more than _likes_ him,” Curufinwë growled. “He claims to—to love him! Despite _clear_ evidence to the contrary—they are less friendly now than they ever have been!—my Nelyo says he _has_ fallen for Findekáno, and that he cannot lie about it, and of course why _would_ he if he truly does want to—to _marry_ him—”

“Wait,” Ñolofinwë interrupted, his mind buzzing as he took in this new information. “He said that—he _wants_ this?”

“Not in those terms, but yes.” Curufinwë halted beneath a plum tree and glared at it like it was the source of all his problems. “I can scarcely believe it. But—and this is why I came to _you_ —he said nothing of Findekáno’s feelings for _him_. So.”

At this he looked up expectantly, as if he’d made some profound statement. Ñolofinwë grimaced. “So...?”

“Well, if he’s pining in secret, or his feelings are unrequited, it doesn’t matter what he wants,” Curufinwë said as if it was obvious. “A bond requires two parties. Nelyafinwë is only one. I would rather he break things off, but if he cannot—well, what about Findekáno?”

“Ah.” Ñolofinwë closed his eyes. “I see.”

“So?” Curufinwë demanded. “Will he?”

“Hmm,” Ñolofinwë mused.

Before yesterday—before he had overheard Maitimo and Findekáno in the closet—he would have said, _Yes, of course._ He knew the strain Finno was under, the tension between him and Maitimo now that their innocent friendship had turned into a game of politics. And he knew his own guilt at pushing them into this; of course they would both jump at the chance to end this amicably.

But now...after having heard what he had, and spoken with Findekáno... Now he had doubts. Findekáno had spoken of Maitimo’s beauty, and, well, yes—he was “well-formed,” after all, Ñolofinwë was not blind to that. But simple physical attraction was not enough for two eldar to fool around in closets, especially under these circumstances, and despite Findekáno’s weak excuses about “practice for the wedding” he was suspicious that perhaps there was some true desire and love hiding under the surface.

Still—surely Finno would have _told_ him! Even if he was nervous to admit that he’d fallen for Curufinwë’s son, surely he trusted his own father to support him; and after the words they had exchanged only minutes ago, surely he would have confessed. But he had not. He had only said that he “wasn’t dreading it” —a far cry from Nelyafinwë’s apparent declaration of undying love.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Yesterday, I...”

He hesitated, not wanting to betray Findekáno’s privacy and trust, but—well, Curufinwë was a duplicitous scoundrel, but Ñolofinwë knew he loved his sons. This was for Nelyafinwë’s sake, also.

“Yesterday, I overheard the two of them together,” he admitted, lowering his voice with a glance up to the manor. Findekáno’s window was closed, but there was no harm in caution. “They were...well...there is no tactful way to put this: they were... _experimenting_. With one another’s hröar.”

Red blossomed in Curufinwë’s cheeks, so hot and angry that his resemblance to Carnistir was quite obvious. “They were _what_?” he hissed.

“I am concerned,” Ñolofinwë began, “that they—”

“I am _more than concerned_!” Curufinwë spat.

“Would you let me finish?” Ñolofinwë snapped. He took a breath to calm himself, then continued, “I am concerned that they are sacrificing too much for our sake. When I confronted him, Findekáno said nothing of love, only of duty—he claims they were simply ‘practicing’ for their eventual bonding. I am deeply troubled that he would force himself into such intimacy.”

“I ought to—” Curufinwë broke off, his fists clenched, then turned around to hit the tree. The branches shook, and a plum fell; Ñolofinwë reached out and caught it before it hit the ground.

“Careful,” he warned. “Atar helped me plant this one.”

Curufinwë stepped away, showing the tree more reverence than he had ever shown his brother. Of course. A plant touched by Finwë Ñoldóran had more worth in his mind than his son, if that son was born of his _second_ wife.

“I do not want Nelyafinwë to be hurt because of this,” Curufinwë said with practiced control. “If he is...forcing himself to love, for my sake, if he hurts himself in an effort to please me, to fix my—” He scowled. “To heal the rift _I_ caused, that he has already done so much to close...”

Ñolofinwë stared. It was the closest he’d ever heard to Curufinwë admitting he had done something wrong.

“Perhaps they are going to these absurd lengths as...a warning,” Ñolofinwë mused. “Showing us what it would really be like if they were wed. Perhaps they want to guilt us into breaking things off.”

“Then why would Nelyafinwë refuse?” Curufinwë huffed.

“I do not know,” Ñolofinwë admitted. “But...everything you have told me gives me more cause to worry. We should never have let this go so far.”

“I _have_ enjoyed planning the wedding, I must admit,” Fëanáro sighed. “Anairë is much easier to work with than Cútaþar...that is, the younger of Kánafinwë’s mothers-in-law. Would that I were the elder of Nerdanel and I; I know I am difficult to work with on things like this, but alas, it is the tradition...”

Ñolofinwë almost smiled. It _was_ nice to see his brother in his element, creating and arranging, without any malice or suspicion. But perhaps these small accomplishments—perhaps even that they were collaborating on a way to end this union—were signs enough that they needn’t go any further. Not if it would hurt Maitimo and Findekáno.

“I will tell Findekáno about this option,” he said. “It is...unlike him to keep secrets from me, but it is unlike me to pressure him into a marriage, so I understand why his trust in me may be damaged. I do not know if he will confide in me his plans, but I hope he will make the right decision.”

“He’s a smart lad,” Curufinwë said gruffly. “I’m sure he will.”

Ñolofinwë stared. Now that Curufinwë had calmed down somewhat—now that they were working together—his brother seemed almost...approachable.

“I hope so,” he said. “And I hope Maitimo will trust you again, also. His heart is too big for the mess we’ve made of this family...I admire his resolve and political acumen, but it should not be up to him to clean up after our generation.”

Curufinwë looked at him quizzically. “He is the best of us,” he agreed, pride creeping into his tone.

“I would not hate to gain him as a law-son,” Ñolofinwë admitted, wondering if he’d gone mad. “Of course, I am just as eager as you are to forgo this ‘alliance,’ but...”

Curufinwë let out a puff of air through his nose. “Well, Findekáno is far from the worst dinner company I’ve entertained,” he agreed. “But—this is all about _ending_ the betrothal, not accepting it.”

“Of course,” Ñolofinwë said. “Well. Thank you, brother, for...confiding in me.”

Curufinwë gave him a strange look. “You’re...welcome,” he said. “It was...productive.”

They stood there, baffled by the lack of tension, for a long moment. Then the dinner bell rang, and Ñolofinwë looked back to his house: ah. Supper was ready.

“Good day, brother,” Curufinwë said gruffly, and hurried away.

“Good day,” Ñolofinwë echoed, and it wasn’t until he’d returned to the house that he realized Fëanáro had forgotten to append a _‘half’_ to their relation.

* * *

Findekáno was waiting for him when Maitimo finally managed to slip away from his brothers and sneak off to their secret garden. The moment he dropped down from the fence, Findekáno was on him, pulling him into a heated kiss that made Maitimo weak at the knees. He kissed back, just as fiercely, drinking in the feeling of being wanted, desired, _loved._

As the wedding approached—now only weeks away—the tension between them had become almost unbearable. Maitimo was frustrated and antsy, and could scarcely look at his betrothed without being overcome with a desire to devour him. He knew Findekáno felt likewise, and they had taken to performing arguments in front of the court just to let off some steam. The other option was hiding in closets and getting each other off, which, while more exciting, was also much more dangerous. What if they got _caught_?

“Finno,” Maitimo gasped, breaking their kiss and pulling his beloved close to his chest. He could feel Findekáno’s heartbeat, fast and wild, and shuddered, wanting him closer, closer, _closer_. Soon, he reminded himself. Soon—unless his father did something incredibly rash—they would be wed, and nothing at all would separate them, not even their flesh.

“This past week has been _awful_ ,” Findekáno growled, clinging to Maitimo as if he never intended to let him go. “Ammë is on edge—the catering service fell through, she’s looking for a new one—if Haru gives me one more pitying glance I’m going to _hit_ him—”

“Hit me instead,” Maitimo offered, and Finno glared at him.

“Don’t tempt me,” he snapped. “The _things_ I want to do to you, Russo...”

“Soon,” Maitimo promised. “Fin, it’s _six weeks_ , and then you’re mine for all of Arda. We can do this for six more weeks, surely?”

Findekáno sighed dramatically and slumped to the ground, his back up against the fence. “ _We_ can,” he said glumly, “but I’m not so sure about our fathers.”

Maitimo grimaced. “Aye...you have a point.” He sat down next to Findekáno, leaning his head on Finno’s shoulder despite being the taller nér between them. “Not two days ago, my father came to me all excited about a way to end the betrothal. Honestly I’m surprised it took him this long...”

“Forswear me, say that you tried and failed to love me?” Findekáno guessed.

“How did you know?”

“Because he asked me to do the same thing,” Findekáno said.

Maitimo gawked at him. “He _what_?!”

“Not— _him_.” Findekáno pouted. “But he came to speak with my father, and when they were done taking counsel, Atya came and offered me the same ‘way out.’ I can only assume Fëanáro’s attempt with you was unsuccessful; there’s no other reason he would ever count on _me_ to be his saving grace.”

“I told him I could not,” Maitimo said. “I told him—” He blushed. “Well, I told him that I love you.”

“Russo!” Findekáno hit him lightly on the chest. “You _what_? I thought I would crack and tell _my_ father first—”

“What else was I to say?” Maitimo exclaimed. “I didn’t...I didn’t tell him _everything_. I made it seem as if the arrangement had worked, and that I had come to be fond of you, but...I don’t think he believes me.”

“He doesn’t respect it, certainly,” Findekáno grumbled. “If he truly wanted you to be happy he wouldn’t have tried to get _me_ to end things.”

“Did you tell _your_ father...?” Maitimo asked.

Findekáno didn’t meet his eyes. “No,” he admitted. “Now I feel cowardly for not having done so, but...well, I didn’t know what to say. I clammed up, blathered on about the alliance...he left me alone to think about it, and I snuck away here. But I’m sure he will ask me again before the ceremony.”

“What are we going to _do_?” Maitimo cried. “Atar looked at me like I’d grown a second head when I told him I loved you...even if we _do_ get married, I don’t know if I can stand his consternation about my feelings for you.”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Findekáno said shortly. “Six weeks...you’re right, I can endure this for six more weeks.” He clenched his fists. “We are _so_ close to being married...and then once we’re wed, what does it matter what anyone says? At the end of the day we’ll be together, forever, and I can take you over and over again until you forget your own name, not to mention all this political drama.”

Maitimo blushed. Findekáno shifted, rolling over to straddle his lap, and kissed him again. Maitimo met him eagerly, his whole body aflame, feeling Findekáno’s desire rolling off him in waves—and this was _before_ the bond. He could scarcely imagine what it would be to be truly connected, fëa and hröa.

“I know there’s more to marriage than sex,” Findekáno whispered hoarsely, biting at Maitimo’s neck in a way that made him stifle a long moan. “But I want you so _badly_ , melindo...”

“Ai, Finno,” he gasped. “I want you too— _please_ —let me please you, love, take the edge off—”

Findekáno laughed. “You always please me,” he assured, but he let Maitimo slip his hands beneath his robes and bring him a more intense kind of pleasure.

When they were done, lying lazily on the grass in their garden, Maitimo sighed happily. Finno’s head rested on his chest; he felt his beloved’s presence with every breath.

“I still can scarcely wait until our full bonding,” Findekáno admitted softly.

Maybe he was drunk on sex, but suddenly Maitimo couldn’t see the point in all this posturing. “Honestly...why must we wait?” he said.

Findekáno sat up, frowning quizzically. “What?”

“Look, I know what I said earlier...” Maitimo waved a hand. “Six weeks is not so very long, and if it were only a matter of time I would endure it. But you know our fathers are going to keep trying to end things. If Nolofinwë can’t get you to break the betrothal contract, I wouldn’t put it past Atar to make some grand pronouncement _at_ the wedding feast.”

Findekáno groaned. “You’re right—I know you’re right...but that doesn’t change that the date is fixed.”

“Why don’t we just...elope?” Maitimo suggested. “The ceremony is only a formality. In the Dark Times, before our ancestors came to Aman, they didn’t bother with feasts and speeches and fripperies, and some eldar forgo them altogether even now. It could just be me, and you, and the One.”

Findekáno looked at him with such utter longing that Maitimo could not help but draw him close again. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered into Maitimo’s chest.

“I’m serious,” Maitimo whispered. “I couldn’t bear it if they took you away from me somehow...”

“I suppose we _could_...” Findekáno sighed. “But Ammë would be so terribly upset. She’s worked _very_ hard on this.”

Maitimo sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “My amil, too...she loves weddings. You remember how much she cried at Makalaurë’s wedding...”

“And Ammë is going to have my very favorite cake there,” Findekáno added, a little dreamily. “The kind with hidden berries in the filling.”

“I could live with enraging our fathers, but I don’t know about disappointing our mothers,” Maitimo said glumly. He’d known eloping was unlikely to work, but still.

“Atya is already under the impression that we’re ‘sacrificing ourselves for our parents’ sakes,’” Findekáno muttered. “As if I’ve _ever_ done something this important for anyone’s sake but my own! Or yours,” he added as an afterthought.

“And showing we didn’t trust them to keep the peace for six more weeks would not make that any better,” Maitimo said.

Findekáno sat up suddenly. “Also,” he said, his eyes going wide and a little wild, “did I tell you—no, I don’t think I did—do you know who Ammë got to officiate the ceremony?”

Maitimo blinked. “I thought Atar would ask Aulë again. He did it for Makalaurë.” Most weddings were presided over by one of the Ainur, generally a friendly Maia, but for royalty and those close to a patron Vala sometimes one of the High Ones would agree to officiate. Finwë’s family happened to be both, when it came to Aulë.

“She asked _Manwë_ ,” Findekáno said, his voice strangled. “And he said _yes_.”

“He _what_?!” Maitimo stared at him in disbelief. “No. He hasn’t—he’s _never_ —the last wedding he officiated was Tulkas and Nessa!”

“I can barely believe it, either,” Findekáno said. “But you know he’s been watching the Noldor carefully, ever since Fëanáro’s, ah...speech at the forum, two decades ago.”

“The one where he called Nolofinwë a bastard and an usurper,” Maitimo said tiredly. “Yes, I remember...”

“Well, he helped arrange for Finwë to marry Haruni Indis, so I think he feels somewhat responsible for all this,” Findekáno explained. “If he shows divine approval of—of our union, who can argue with the validity of our marriage?”

“Fëanáro can and will,” Maitimo pointed out. “He is not especially fond of the Valar.”

“But even he would not stand against them directly!” Findekáno said. “Russandol, we can’t slight _Manwë Súlimo_ by eloping.”

“We _could_ ,” Maitimo grumbled, but he didn’t really mean it.

“I think Manwë likes me,” Findekáno said. “Ever since I won that falconry competition five years ago, all my little prayers to him have been fulfilled, and he smiled at me when we visited Valmar last harvest—I don’t want to lose his favor.”

“Alright,” Maitimo conceded. “Eloping was only ever a daydream.” He paused, an idea striking him. “Hmm...”

“Hm?” Findekáno kissed his jaw gently. “What are you thinking now, Russo?”

“We will have to attend the ceremony, of course,” Maitimo said slowly, “but what if we...altered our parents’ plans a little?”

“Not _too_ drastically, or my mother will never forgive us,” Findekáno warned. “What do you mean?”

“The vows Anairë and Fëanáro assembled,” Maitimo said. “Bits and pieces of quotations from their own weddings, from Haru’s, from the early Cuiviénen promises...”

“Yes?”

“What if we wrote our own?” Maitimo suggested.

“Hm!” Findekáno frowned thoughtfully. “Unconventional, but I’m intrigued.”

“Instead of speaking of ‘uniting in peace’ and hearkening back to ‘the time under the stars’ we can make our vows about _us_ ,” Maitimo said eagerly. “Aren’t you tired of hiding, Finno? We can tell the story of how we fell in love, the _real_ story. That way they’ll all know the truth, that we _want_ this, that the politics is something we endured rather than the reason we’re marrying.”

Findekáno looked at him with a soft fondness that filled Maitimo’s heart. “That’s a lovely idea,” he murmured. “You’re very wise, Maitimo.”

“You inspire me,” Maitimo said, and kissed him. “I am, of course, still willing to elope should things turn sour.”

Findekáno huffed out a laugh. “If the wedding goes awry, yes, of course,” he teased. “I _will_ be wed to you in six weeks’ time, even if our fathers shout at each other until they drop dead!” He paused, then added mischievously, “Imagine if we didn’t bother to wait until after it went wrong. If I took you right now, right here, and we avoided eye contact for six weeks...and then just as we finish declaring our love story we look out into the audience and they see we’re already married!”

“Finno!” Maitimo exclaimed, laughing in delight. Oh, the _look_ on Fëanáro’s face—that alone would be worth it. “Oh, Finno, _you’re_ the clever one. Can we?”

Findekáno hesitated. “I spoke in jest,” he admitted. “I want our bonding to be...special. Perfect. Even if I _am_ tempted at the prospect.”

“It will be special,” Maitimo murmured, “because it will be me and you. Nothing else matters, in the end.”

“I know.” Findekáno kissed him, slow and serious. “Still. Perhaps...” He sighed, staring off into the distance. “I’ll think about it. We have six weeks to see if things will truly get that bad.”

“Six weeks to write our new vows,” Maitimo added.

“Oh, I have _plenty_ written.” Findekáno’s hands slipped into Maitimo’s robes. “Every day you inspire me, my Russo...”

“More poetry?” Maitimo asked breathlessly, surrendering himself to Findekáno’s talented fingers. “I’ll— _ahh_ —have to make a new false book to hide it in, you’ve given me so much already...”

Findekáno chuckled. “Atya knocked on my door the other day while I was writing more,” he confessed. “Oh, Russo, I forgot to tell you—he overheard us in the palace the other day—I made excuses, but dear Eru, I was mortified—”

“He _what_?” Maitimo exclaimed, but then Findekáno repeated the same thing that had made him so very careless that day and he forgot to be upset.

“It’s alright,” Findekáno whispered. “Come undone for me, love, show me all of you...”

Maitimo trembled and obeyed, sighing and falling limp in Finno’s warm embrace. After a moment he blinked, mumbling out, “At least...at least _your_ father knocked. _My_ father barged into my room with no warning while I was reading a verse about your mouth on my—”

“Oh, I love you, Russo,” Findekáno giggled. He kissed him, wiping his hand clean on the grass. “I would not have chosen this exact path for us, but...we’ve walked it this far, and I can see the Light of Aman at the end of the Great Journey.”

“I love you, too,” Maitimo whispered. “We can do this.”

“It will all be worth it, for you to be mine,” Findekáno promised.

Maitimo ran his fingers through Findekáno’s braids, marveling at his beauty, his bravery. “It has always been worth it,” he murmured. “And I have always been yours.”

* * *

The day of one’s wedding was nervewracking for most grooms, Findekáno was told. The anticipation of what lay at the end of the day was overwhelming enough, but the endless parade of congratulatory relatives—and in the case of a prince, courtiers—took that anxiety to a new level.

The fruition of an arranged marriage was even more stressful, especially one so drenched in political tension; Findekáno was terrified of what Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë might do to ruin the ceremony. They had been suspiciously quiet since their initial attempts to pressure him into forswearing Russandol, and he knew that they would not give up so easily.

And any blushing bride would feel faint in the presence of the King of Arda, Findekáno was certain.

It was to Anairë’s immense relief that the feast began smoothly. Findekáno enjoyed his favorite cake, indulged in hand-feeding some to Russandol, laughed at all the jealous maidens sighing that the two most eligible bachelors in Tirion had chosen each other instead of one of them. Anairë hurried around, greeting guests, her face flushed with excitement; Fëanáro was likewise in his element, boasting about Nelyafinwë’s latest achievements in rhetoric and theoretical analysis, even throwing a cursory compliment Findekáno’s way when the opportunity presented itself.

Findekáno almost let himself relax. If the parents of the happy couple were anyone other than who they were, this would be seen as a splendid success—as it was, he thought it was a miracle everything was going so well. But Fëanáro’s enthusiasm was coupled with a mad gleam in his eye Findekáno did not trust at _all_ , and Ñolofinwë had been suspiciously quiet the entire time, speaking softly to only Finwë and Indis.

But as the servants swept in to clear the tables, signaling the end of the feast, nothing had gone awry. Findekáno’s heart pounded, and he grasped Russandol’s hand. Could it truly be that all their worries and precautions had been unnecessary?

 _Patience, love,_ Russo murmured in his mind, and Findekáno felt a flood of warmth pass between them. _There is still plenty of time for things to go horribly wrong._

 _Why is that comforting?_ Findekáno quipped to no one but his dearly beloved, and Russandol stifled a laugh.

Anairë rose to the stand, already weepy. She launched into a grand speech about her pride in her son, in her husband and law-brother for putting aside their differences, in her own efforts and Fëanáro’s in organizing the feast. She thanked the Valar, especially Manwë, for blessing their family on this occasion, and soon she was crying too hard to continue. Nerdanel ushered her off the stage, already sobbing herself, and the two níssi held each other as the second organizer of the day stood and cleared his throat.

Oh, dear.

Findekáno searched for Russandol’s hand and grasped it firmly, trembling. This was what they had been dreading.

“Friends,” Fëanáro began, his voice booming out across the hall. “Family. Faithful followers. And, ah, our guest of honor.” He nodded in Manwë’s direction, lifting his glass slightly. “A year ago, I could never have anticipated this day. To collaborate with the son of Indis on such an event as a _wedding_ —to give my eldest son, my pride and joy, to Findekáno Nolofinwion...I would have been gravely insulted. I _was_ gravely insulted, when my beloved father suggested this alliance.”

He cleared his throat. “But that was one year ago. Today I stand before you as a different nér. I am no less proud, nor am I apologetic for speaking the truth as I see it—but I admit now that I see it in a different light. Which is why I would now like to break tradition and welcome Nolofinwë Indision to join me in my speech.”

A murmur of surprise passed through the assembled guests, and Findekáno bit back a gasp. _Oh, no..._

 _It could be a good thing?_ But Russandol was not remotely confident in that statement.

Ñolofinwë rose and strode to stand beside his brother on the stage. They rarely stood side-by-side; Findekáno was struck with amusement at the sight of his father towering over Fëanáro. Not that Fëanáro looked any less proud and imposing despite his short stature.

“Thank you, Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë said graciously. “Indeed, much has changed since I—somewhat reluctantly—agreed to this alliance. It has not been an entirely smooth process, but I feel that I am now deeply cognizant of the depth of my brother’s love for his children, and in that I can relate.” He took a deep breath. “Fëanáro and I will never fully see eye to eye.”

“Certainly not,” Fëanáro agreed, and a ripple of laughter spread throughout the crowd. “But after much careful consideration—and an astonishing amount of cooperation—we have come to a difficult, but important, conclusion.”

“Our father, King Finwë, arranged this marriage with love,” Ñolofinwë said, bowing his head in respect to the King. “He saw strife between us, his sons, and wished to heal it. He saw friendship between Maitimo and Findekáno, _our_ sons, and wished to foster it further. But Curufinwë and I only saw a political ploy to force us to get along—one that, if we refused, would reflect badly on us both.”

“So we agreed,” Fëanáro continued. “I, for one, immediately began to analyze the betrothal contract, searching for any way out of this arrangement that would absolve Nelyafinwë of this dreadful responsibility.” He coughed. “No. That is too generous to myself. I balked at the thought of joining my House to Nolofinwë’s. My greatest fault in all this was a lack of regard for my own son.”

Now Fëanáro turned his fiery gaze to Russandol. “Nelyafinwë. My son. I am beyond proud of your accomplishments, of your kind heart, of your determination to see this through for the good of us all. But I should never have forced you into this difficult situation.”

Russandol’s mouth fell open in a tiny _o_. “Um...thank you, Atar...?”

 _Finally he sees reason,_ Findekáno thought waspishly, but Russandol barely seemed to register the thought, so shocked was he.

“And Findekáno,” Ñolofinwë said. Findekáno started, alarmed by the sudden attention. “I was wracked with guilt from the day I told you of his Majesty’s decision—yet I did much too little, much too late. I thought of myself, and my relationship with my father, before I thought of you, and my relationship with my son.”

“Atya,” Findekáno whispered, “you didn’t—”

“Which is why,” Fëanáro continued, “Ñolofinwë and I stand today in—in brotherhood, and will sign our _own_ contract, of peace and reconciliation, that this rift between our Houses will be healed at last. No longer shall the son of Míriel quarrel with the children of Indis.” He grimaced, as if the words caused him great pain to speak, but speak them he did. “Half-brothers in blood we may be—”

 _Oh, Námo’s balls,_ Russandol exclaimed. _Finno, they’re going to—!_

“—but full brothers in heart we _shall_ be,” Ñolofinwë finished firmly. He drew out a long scroll from within his robes, declaring, “In this contract we release our sons from this betrothal. We regret that it took them proving their loyalty to us over the desires of their own hearts to push us into this agreement, but—Maitimo, Findekáno. You are free to be your own néri, and wed who you _want_ to wed, rather than forcing your friendship to become something that it is not.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Findekáno had sprung to his feet. Still holding Russandol’s hand, he dragged his beloved up to the stage and stood crossly before his father.

“You speak of the desires of our hearts, and yet have never _once_ in all this _asked_ what those desires might be!” Findekáno exclaimed. A shocked gasp echoed throughout the hall; he ignored it. “Atya, I know you think you are doing the right thing, but did you ever consider that perhaps Russo and I _want_ to be married?”

Ñolofinwë met his eyes and blanched. “Finno...?” he croaked. “Wait...what have you—?

“You need not do this for our sake,” Fëanáro insisted. “Nelyafinwë, I _insist_ —”

“Not everything I do is for _your sake_ , Atar,” Russandol snapped. He glared at his father, the look in his eyes shocking Fëanáro into silence.

Findekáno took the scroll from his father’s hands and threw it to the floor.

“Astaldo!” Anairë shouted, rising from her seat, but before anyone could do another rash thing, a booming voice echoed throughout the hall.

 ** _Let them speak,_** said Manwë Súlimo. **_It is the day of their wedding. Let Findekáno and Nelyafinwë tell us of their hearts._**

A hushed silence fell, and Findekáno felt the hair on his arms stand on end. _Thank you, Lord,_ he prayed silently.

Russandol ushered their fathers off the stage. Findekáno had never seen him so irate; the look was incredibly attractive on him.

 _Let’s do this,_ he murmured, and Russandol turned to smile at him, taking his hand.

They looked at one another as they began.

“This was supposed to be our vows,” Findekáno confessed, feeling all his love and anxiety bubbling up inside him. “I know Ammë and Fëanáro worked hard on compiling the most relevant lines from historical marriages for us to repeat, but...”

“That isn’t us,” Russandol finished. “The truth is, no one knows the real us. We’ve had to hide ourselves for so very long—but no longer. Now we’re sharing our story.”

Findekáno squeezed his hand. “Russo and I were dear to each other long before we were pushed into our betrothal,” he admitted. “Our friendship was known, but—but for as long as I can remember, truly, I knew I loved him.”

“It took me a little longer to figure out, but I did eventually.” Russandol blushed prettily. “And then, after many long hunting trips, and conversations lasting long through the night...”

“I kissed him,” Findekáno said, and did so again. It was short, sweet, but sparks flew between them, giving him the strength he needed to continue.

 _I love you,_ Russandol whispered.

 _I love you,_ Findekáno whispered back.

“That was only two months before Haru had his grand idea,” Findekáno said. “Our love was new—and we thought we had to keep it secret. Maybe forever.”

“We knew our fathers would never approve,” Russandol said. “But I loved Findekáno—I _love_ Findekáno—and I couldn’t keep that to myself any longer.”

A sniffle; Findekáno looked over Russo’s shoulder to see Nerdanel weeping into her handkerchief, clutching Anairë’s hand. His own mother looked dazed, confused, but tears flowed down her face also.

“I will admit, I was unhappy the decision of who and when I was to marry was taken from my hands,” Findekáno said. “But that suddenly I was betrothed to Russandol, the only nér I loved, the only nér I ever thought I _could_ marry...that was a blessed opportunity.”

“ _Except_ that still, no one knew what we meant to one another!” Russandol exclaimed. “There was so much expectation on us to resent this, to dislike one another, to be as eager as our fathers were to find a way out—it was dreadful.”

“We may not always have coped with the stress in the _best_ way,” Findekáno admitted, and he thought he heard Írissë snort at that. “There were times where I wanted to end this entirely. But we had each other throughout, and that made all the difference.”

“And when my father came to me and proclaimed that all I needed to do to end the betrothal honorably was declare that I had tried and failed to love Findekáno, I had to tell him I could not do that.” Russandol grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think he understood what I meant at the time, but I hope you do now, Atar.”

“My father offered the same ‘solution’ to me,” Findekáno said. “I think that was about the time he and Fëanáro finally started to scheme _together_ about how to end this, resulting in...that contract I tossed to the floor.” He grimaced. “Sorry about that, Atya.”

A few laughs in the crowd; one had a distinctly _windy_ feeling to it, and Findekáno shivered at the thought that his poor joke had amused Manwë himself.

“We knew they were up to something, so we decided we needed to have a plan, too,” Russandol said. “And...this is it. Tell the truth, to all of you—all the truth. That I love Findekáno, and he loves me.”

“And then...” Findekáno blushed. _Are you ready, Russo?_

 _I am ready for anything, with you at my side,_ Russandol promised.

They kissed once more, then turned to face the crowd. Findekáno threw down his mental defenses, cast his gaze out into the audience, met the eyes of each of his friends and family in defiance. At long last he settled his gaze on Manwë, his heart pounding as he challenged the Laws that the King of Arda himself had ordained.

“Marriage is not a matter of the Valar, or of politics,” Russandol said firmly, gripping Findekáno’s hand tightly. “It is between us and Ilúvatar.”

“Last night we let the One in on our relationship,” Findekáno said. “I would apologize that we put Him before you all, but we thought it was only proper that the Allfather received His notice first.”

“Finno,” Russandol groaned, “I told you _not_ to say that—”

“So we are already bonded,” Findekáno declared, “as you can see in our eyes. Our fëar are one in the eyes of the One, and _nothing_ can undo that—not even the scheming of our fathers.”

His words rang out confident and true, lingering heavy in the air—and then the entire crowd burst into commotion.

Cries of “Beautiful!” and “Blasphemy!” abounded; Findekáno saw Daurin, one of Fëanáro’s staunchest supporters, faint into the arms of his wife; a mob of his cousins descended upon Carnistir demanding payment for—great Eru, had they been _betting_ on their relationship?!

“I can’t believe you ruined the wedding I planned,” sobbed Anairë, stumbling up to embrace her son. “Oh, Astaldo, I knew I named you true!”

She hugged him fiercely, and Findekáno found that he, too, was crying. “Sorry, Ammë,” he whispered, “but I couldn’t let anyone take him from me.”

“I knew you’d find love, even if you didn’t believe it,” Anairë cried, and Findekáno only rolled his eyes. There would be time to correct her later.

“But you will—” She sniffed, wiping her eyes. “You _will_ still let your atya and Nerdë do the honors...? Oh! And King Manwë, oh my, I _do_ hope he’s not offended—”

 ** _I am not,_** Manwë boomed, his voice tinged with...amusement? **_It is my responsibility to order the Kingdom of Arda, and guide my Father’s Children to find their peace; that is where my Laws for your Customs originated. But the One created His Children capable of bonding without my laws or your ceremonies, and if He has given His blessing to Nelyafinwë and Findekáno, I can do nothing but congratulate the happy couple._** He paused. **_And, if you still wish the formal ceremony to occur, I would still be glad to officiate this most unconventional union._**

“Yes, please,” Russandol said faintly, clinging to Findekáno’s hand, and Manwë arose, silencing the crowd with a gust of wind.

The hours after that were something of a blur in Findekáno’s memory. He recalled the feeling of his father’s hand grasping his, passing him the golden ring presented by Russo’s mother; he remembered the removal of their silver betrothal rings, and sliding their wedding rings home where they belonged.

He was certain they kissed, that Manwë spoke more words, declaring them husbands in the Laws of the Eldar as well as in the sight of Eru Ilúvatar. (He even thought he caught Manwë winking at them, though he was in such a daze that could easily have been his imagination.)

But soon he was swept away from Russo, his _husband_ , and into a crowd of people who insisted on congratulating him (and, in a few cases, threatening him).

Hours later, his head spinning, Findekáno finally found his way back to Russandol. He fell into his husband’s arms, resting his spirit in Russo’s, clinging to him body and soul.

 _Let’s never get married again,_ he begged.

Russo chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. _Just once. Just to you. So long as you promise that we can reenact our bonding whenever the mood takes us._

 _Oh, I’m going to do more than reenact,_ Findekáno promised, looking up at him with hunger.

The crowd began to disperse. Traditionally this was the time where the newly married couple would slip away to bond, but, well—they’d done that already. Still, Findekáno burned from the inside out, and he could feel husband’s desire just as strong. He tried to tug Russo to safety before any more family members could accost them, but he didn’t quite manage to make it.

“Yonya,” Ñolofinwë said, his eyes red from weeping. “I am—I am _so_ sorry—I am so _proud_ —”

“Thank you, Atya,” Findekáno said, and he _meant_ it, but could this not wait. “I—have much to say to you, but right now—”

“Nelyafinwë!” Fëanáro exclaimed, rushing up to join his brother in accosting the newlyweds. “I ought to be furious with you, but I can only find room for joy—”

“Atar, can we have this conversation later?” Russandol begged. “ _After_ our honeymoon?”  
  
“But you’re already bonded,” said Nerdanel, coming up to rest her hand on her husband’s arm. “What’s the hurry?”

“ _Amil_ —”

“I am only teasing, Maitimo.” She smiled wickedly. “You know—we didn’t make a statement out of it, but Fëanáro and I were bonded before our ceremony too—in fact, you were already a spark in my belly when—”

“ _Amil!_ ”

“—but I remember how eager _I_ was even despite that to get some time alone with—”

“We are _leaving_ now,” Russandol declared, his cheeks redder than Findekáno had ever seen them. (Yet. He had a few ideas for how to make his husband flush even deeper, and not only where it was most visible.)

“Without saying farewell to your haru?” Finwë said, swanning over, and Findekáno almost groaned out loud in frustration.

“Leave the boys alone,” Indis chided, a step behind him. “Whatever you want to say can be said later.”

“I just wanted to apologize,” Finwë said. His sons and grandsons stared at him, astonished; he was usually so regal and reserved and above reproach.

“If only you had come to me earlier,” Finwë explained. “If I had known you were truly in _love_ , I would have arranged this union long ago—”

“Haru?” Findekáno interrupted. “Thank you, truly, for the opportunity. We deeply appreciate the support. But also—”

“—Finno speaks for both of us when he says that perhaps _you_ should have come to _us_ ,” Russandol finished firmly. “Everything worked out for the best— _this_ time.”

“But it did _not_ have to be this dramatic,” Findekáno added.

Finwë at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Ah...you may have a point. Well.”

“Go,” Indis urged them. “Before they can think of something else to bother you with.”

“We’re going,” Russandol said firmly, and with one last smile over his shoulder, tugged Findekáno away from their family and down the hall. They didn’t get far before Finno had him pressed up against the wall, kissing him fiercely, already dying to join with him again as they had last night—

 _Finno,_ Russo gasped. _We—we bonded in our garden, and there are rooms set aside for us, but I—_

“What can possibly be more important than me getting into your pants this very instant?” Findekáno growled, attempting to do just that.

Russandol grabbed his wrist, his eyes alight. “Me getting into yours,” he teased, _but truly—I was keeping it a surprise, but..._

 _Out with it before I lose my mind, husband!_ Findekáno demanded.

Russo kissed him, soft and sweet. _I arranged for a carriage to take us there—the driver’s waiting outside._

“Take us _where_?” Findekáno asked, but he let Russo tug him along, out of the palace and into the waiting contraption. As soon as the door was closed and the carriage got moving, he was on Russandol again, yanking down his robes and mouthing at his most intimate parts, and he didn’t let Russo explain until they had both found release.

“So—where are we going?” he croaked, wiping his mouth, looking up at Russandol, his _husband_ , with bright eyes.

Russo kissed him, tugging on his braids. “Do you remember that cottage where we spent our first night together, a month before all this began?” he asked shyly.

Findekáno smiled. “Of course.” It was a humble little place, long since abandoned, but Russo had made it somewhat habitable. It was on that rickety little bed that he had first tasted his lover’s desire; it was there he had realized this was the nér he wanted to marry, that he had been right that there was no other for him.

“Well...remember when I went off hunting with Ingoldo and Makalaurë, awhile back, and you were jealous you didn’t get to come along?” Russandol prompted. “We went back there—don’t give me that look, you’d _know_ if I’d done anything untoward that time—and we fixed it up some more. It’s not _home_ , not really—we’ll find a place in Tirion, probably that town house Amil’s been looking at—but it’s good enough for a few weeks of just me and you.”

“Oh, Russo,” Findekáno exclaimed, pulling him into a tight embrace. “You think of _everything_!”

“Not everything,” Russandol murmured, tugging on his braids in a way that made Findekáno shiver and heat pulse through him. “But when it comes to you, vanimelda...everything that counts.”


End file.
